


Sam's Blood

by Caladrius



Series: Dean's Dreams [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Ickiness, M/M, Post Hell, Psychological Torture, Torturer Dean, alastair - Freeform, but probably happened, hell dream, just all the really really bad things in hell, knife work, that they never bring up in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:26:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3677406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caladrius/pseuds/Caladrius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warning: rape triggers and blood.</p><p>Dean's Dreams are short mini fics that are just that, Dean's dreams. Sometimes they are nice, sometimes they are sad. Sometimes they are memories, sometimes they are the embodiment of all he fears. But they all have one thing in common--they all revolve around Sam</p><p>"Sam's Blood" is about a Hell that was and wasn't...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam's Blood

He's at the bottom of a sticky black-red press of slick bodies, massed in agony, moaning. He keeps still because they are coming,  _they always come,_  and the others don't know so they grapple and reach like wounded animals and they tear and nails like knives dig into his cuts. His stomach is open. He's holding things inside but quietly quietly quietly like a dead thing because the rack is bad. It's madness and ache and euphoria, but the pit is so much worse.

He's suffocating but there's never been air here. He can't make himself understand that. He's not allowed to understand that. He's only allowed to know that he'll pleasure them all, give up his horrors for their amusement, and then it's back onto the rack for their amusement and then back into the pit in a neverending cycle and this is hell this is hell  _this is hell._

Peeled away. The body above him. A woman, maybe a man,  _whocareswhoknows_ is gone. A slick slap of meat and hoarse cries that sound like agony and ecstasy and death and gore. They don't discriminate They don't care. They've been here longest and they know how to take what they want.

He tries to be soft. Smooth. Useless and invisible. He breathes ( _not breathing_ ) the scent of blood, the taste of meat half cooked from the heat of more meat. He doesn't exist.

_I don't exist I don't exist_

_Dean..._

They've found him.

They always find him.

He holds his insides in. They take his mouth and his tongue and  _rule_  him. His legs are useless but he scrabbles in the thick red bubbling mass of mutilated bodies  _not real bodies_  of the pit floor. He shies away from the probing touches, tries to disappear but they are whispering sweetly to him. He tastes delicious. He's good  _so good be good be evil be damned_. And they they pull his hands away and they are inside him, stretching, ripping,  _loving_  every morsel, slipping his guts around them and he can't even scream because it feels  _wrong_  in ways that even a soul can't define. They hold him down and he's gasping in the blood. There is nothing he has that they can't have. And they're going to have it. They tell him over and over and over again that they are going to have him and he knows it but he can't make it stop because this is  _hell...and he has to get out and HELP ME, SAM..._

* * *

Alastair hands him the knife with the jagged edges. It's Dean's favorite and Alastair loves him and he knows. Hell is blood and damnation but the worst is for those who can't embrace it  _who won't embrace it_  and he gave in a long long time ago because the rack was bad but the pit was unbearable. Because those touches that reached into him and  _used_  him were somehow worse than having skin flayed from his soul.

" _Make me proud,"_  Alastair says in that way, with that voice, and Dean smiles because he'll make him proud. Nothing exists but to make Dad proud. He'll do what he's told and be fucking  _good_  at it, and the bubbling blood and the screams and slick slap of bodies won't reach inside of him.

So Dean works...

Hell is pleasure and pain. It's the pain that's pleasure that lets him know that he's completely lost now. He's done. He's becoming one of  _them_  if he hasn't already. But he won't go to the pit to take what is his because his work is here. His task is  _now_. He's a beautiful instrument and he slides the blade, rough, around this one's face because he didn't like the face until it was shredded and frayed at the edges. He pulls the skin and it's almost like the face is floating in front of the head, not attached to it.

Alastair is an artist and appreciates art. When his mouth claims his, when his teacher tears at the inside of his cheek with his teeth, he's demonstrating his  _appreciation_  and Dean shudders with joy that he can be so good. So  _good_  at being so  _bad._

And it's every moment of eternity. He forgets his name and he forgets his past-there is just this. He hates himself, he thinks, and he's so fucked up ( _those were my words_ ) that he can't even recognize his soul anymore. There is just blood and cries and shiny slick slap of flesh and knives...

Until.

" _Dean?"_

He stops. Dead stop. The new body on the rack. The new one ( _because he gets all the new ones_ ) is staring at him. Wrists shackled body shackled soul beaten and bloody ( _prepped_ ) and on his rack.

Green eyes in scarlet.

He stops because...

Alastair laughs.  _"What's wrong, son? See a ghost of a former life?"_

He can't process. Images of floppy hair and a shy smile and a laugh and a flash of angry eyes and lanky arms and hands holding a beer hugging him. Hugging him.

" _Dean...Dean?"_

The body knows it now. It's straining. That naked soul all bruised and wet pulling at shackles even though  _useless_  because he knows.  _He knows_!

" _Dean it's me. It's Sam. It's_ me _."_

No.

No. No no no no no nononono.

The delicious scent. The shiny rivulets of blood. He can't stop it he just  _can't_. God, why can't he  _stop?_ This is wrong.  _Is this wrong?_  This isn't happening. This never happened this isn't him. This isn't...

"Sam?"

His voice feels so weird. He hasn't used it in ages upon ages upon ages.

The body is crying. He sees the water mingling with the blood and it's so lovely, want to run a finger through it and  _taste_  it.

" _Yeah. Yeah...God."_

"How?"

Can't say anything else. Won't say anything else. He's no longer a thing that needs to think or have these beautiful memories of laying on the hood of the Impala looking at stars, his shoulder warm from Sam's shoulder.

" _I'm...I'm sorry. I tried. I tried to trade places with you. I just...I tried to_ trade _..."_

Remembers screaming Sam's name for years and years and years because he was Dean and he needed Sam and that was what he knew. Sam had to get him out. But then Sam never came and Dean had to survive...and he gave up "Dean" to be Alastair's lovely tool and he was happy to stop believing because it  _hurt_  to believe. It  _hurt_  to be Dean...

But Sam...

Sam is trying to explain to him what went wrong, why he's here, but he doesn't care. Sam warm and close and lovely and bleeding has gotten his attention in every way.

Alastair hands Dean his favorite knife. He whispers  _"This will be your most beautiful work..._ " and it  _will..._

" _Dean, please..."_

"Sam..."

Hell is madness, ache, and euphoria.  _Sam_ is his madness, ache, and euphoria...

The first taste of Sam's blood comes from his neck. The cut is small and neat because he'll work up to it. Sam barely groans but when his lips have licked a wicked line up the trail of red to its source, he can't leave it because this is his masterpiece.

" _Dean...Stop. You don't...you don't want to do this..."_

It's a groan.

It  _makes_  Dean want to do this...

He drinks until his belly feels warm with the tingling taste of brother's blood. Alastair laughs but Dean knows he  _wants._

_Too bad. Mine. My masterpiece..._

Sam doesn't understand what he must become here, but he will show him. Sam resurrected that name and now he has a  _responsibility_...

He glides the knife around Sam's collarbone. The body jerks and it's gorgeous. They both shiver at the goodness of it. He runs a finger through it, fascinated by it, paints a lovely line of red down Sam's chest to his naval.

He steps close.

They are chest to chest. Sam is trembling. He's saying things like  _"Dean, please. You can stop this"_  but he doesn't  _want_  to stop.

Sam's eyes are beautiful.

He kisses his brother on the mouth, tastes his breath as Sam gasps and then he slides the jagged knife into his brother's guts where it's  _so fucking warm_..

His thoughts don't even feel like his own anymore except he knows they are. They bubble up from inside him and he embraces them as he's embraced his new life...

_Sam, I love you...I love you. I'll make you beautiful. I'll never let you go. I'll become a god for you. I'll be the fucking devil himself if only I can have you...if only I can keep you..._

Dean carves him. He rips him. And Sam stops screaming. He moans because Dean's fingers have turned pain into something surreal. Dean's knife has shown him beauty. Sam's blood heals him. He sinks into that flesh, pushes into it gently, opens Sam to his core. Ribbons of his brother's skin are exquisitely braided and tied around Dean's neck to prove that they are  _one_  and Alastair is  _jealous_. Jealous because Sam belongs only to Dean. And Sam will never go into the pit because Dean will never  _never_  expose him to those other touches. Because he  _is_ Dean and Sam's blood is  _his_ blood and Sam is his masterpiece and forever they'll bleed together forever and forever and forever...

Everything washes away in a thick warm haze that's almost comfortable...

* * *

Dean opens his eyes. He's woken up again for no reason. He takes stock: 5:30am. Gun under pillow. Knife in between mattresses. In Boise (he thinks).

And he's got a hard on.

Great.

Dean needs a shower anyway. He feels...gross for some reason he can't quite put his finger on, so he peels off the covers, stands up to head to the bathroom to get it over with.

He gets as far as standing up.

Sam's half asleep and he tosses and turns once. He's wearing a V-necked T-shirt and there's a long line of skin where it reaches up into messy hair.

Dean gasps.

It's hot and burning suddenly in this place and he's going to be fucking sick. Sick to his stomach all of a sudden, what the hell? He barely makes it to the toilet in time. When it's over and he's gasping and trying to not be so fucking uncool about it, trying to get his shit together so Sam thinks everything is all great in Returned-From-Hell Deanland, Sam has to walk into the bathroom and witness it.

Dean wants Sam to make a joke about how he can't hold his liquor so Dean can make some lameass response and ha ha ha we're all good! But Sam's on his knees next to Dean.

"Dean! Shit. Hey, are you okay?"

And then Dean realizes he's shaking like a fucking junkie. He doesn't want Sam's hands on his shoulder, feeling his forehead. He wants to just...to just get Back To Normal.

"I'm okay...I'm okay..."

_What the actual fuck happened?_

"Dean..."

"I said,  _I'm okay,_  Sam!"

He pulls away like Sam's touch  _burns_  him and wipes the back of his mouth with his hand.

Silence.  _Thank fucking God._

Dean breathes. Sam watches him breathe and breathes.

"I'm good. It's nothing, okay?" Dean's hand is out, palm down, pressing on the air, keeping his voice calm.

Sam stands up.

"Okay, man."

He reaches out. He squeezes Dean's shoulder in that Sam way that says  _"I'm here for you"_  and then he exits the bathroom.

Dean sees only himself in the bathroom mirror. Just his reflection.

He looks like shit, but at least the hardon is gone...


End file.
